


At the End of Your Rope

by enjettaire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, i am not sure where i am going with this, this is my first fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 21:37:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjettaire/pseuds/enjettaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Enjolras knew he had been rude and it had only taken half an hour of Combeferre telling him so until he finally admitted it. He would, however not admit that he had been downright cruel and wrong to tell Grantaire off the way he did. To be quite honest he wasn’t even certain anymore about what exactly he had said to the art major but Enjolras was sure that a) it couldn’t have been as bad as his friends made it sound and that b) even if it had been, it hadn’t come unreasoned."</p><p>After a really unpleasant argument, Enjolras notices that his relation to Grantaire is unlike that to any of the other Amis and after a more or less confusing night he decides to tackle their problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When their meeting  at the Café Musain began, it seemed like it would pass just like their usual get-togethers, with lots of talking and laughing, the occasional bickering and disagreeing on finer points, things like what information they should put on the flyers for the fundraiser rally at the hospital, which they helped organizing or whether or not it would be wise to ask the headmaster for permission to put up the matching posters, seeing as he was probably still mad that their last peaceful demonstration ‘accidentally’ fell on the same day some important potential sponsors from the alumni visited the campus.

Already being engrossed in smaller, individual conversations, nobody had really noticed what had actually happened, when suddenly their blonde leader was rising from his seat opposite their most cynical member. Seeing as their group was momentarily involved in several smaller causes around town and campus it wasn’t surprising that Enjolras was constantly on edge and it seemed to be only a matter of time, until one of Grantaire’s discouraging comments would push him finally across. Les Amis, as they were known, were used to the young political science major getting fed up with the reckless art student, who almost seemed to be intent on getting yelled at eventually. It came as a surprise to them all when instead of his usual heated shouting, Enjolras simply planted his palms firmly on the table in front of him, leaning forwards and delivering the following speech in a moderate volume but filled with a tone that wasn’t short to disgust and loathing.

„You know what I don’t understand? I don’t understand why you are even here, when clearly there is nothing in this world that you consider worth putting energy into. You are sitting there in your liquor induced stupor, uttering nothing but contemptuous commentaries against our cause and frankly I won’t have it anymore, Grantaire. You are unable to contribute to anything we are doing so why don’t you do us all a favor and go to some other place, where you can irritate somebody else. I am done tolerating your presence once and for all. You might think this is all fun and games, that you are sitting here, waiting for some friends to stop with their joking about politics but let me tell you something: this and only this is the real life, no jokes, no friends to wait on. You don’t belong here.“

By the time Enjolras had finished talking, the whole room had fallen silent with everybody turned into the two men’s direction, mouths gaping or eyes widening and an occasional gulping at the harshness of the words. Even for the handsome blonde, it was extremely uncommon to lash out in such a cruel way, considering he was talking to one of them; one of his friends, although it had definitely sounded as if he was rather finishing a final pointed statement at a debate, possibly with his favorite opponent: the chief of the local police department. The silence that hung in the small room at the café seemed to grow dense around them. It was broken by the sound of a chair being drawn back. Grantaire was getting up, putting his half emptied glass of vodka lemon down and to everybody’s astonishment chuckled quietly. Without any more words he pulled a red beanie over his head, which clashed with the shade of green of his torn sweater and slipped into a worn leather jacket. None of the other people in the room were certain of what they should do but finally Grantaire looked up at Enjolras, while he put a cigarette between his lips that he had slipped out of an almost empty pack from his pockets. It was too fast of a glance for anyone of Les Amis to properly catch it, but if you would have asked them, every one of the students would have sworn that instead of his usual smirk and playful mocking expression, there was a grave hurt playing across the face of the dark haired artist. He turned to the stairs and vanished.

 

**\-----------------------------------------------**

 

Enjolras knew he had been rude and it had only taken half an hour of Combeferre telling him so until he finally admitted it. He would, however not admit that he had been downright cruel and wrong to tell Grantaire off the way he did. To be quite honest he wasn’t even certain anymore about what exactly he had said to the art major but Enjolras was sure that a) it couldn’t have been as bad as his friends made it sound and that b) even if it had been, it hadn’t come unreasoned. Not even Courfeyrac and Prouvaire, who liked to believe in misunderstandings and excuses for everybody, could deny that Grantaire was prone to winding Enjolras up and that their fights usually didn’t start because Enjolras was out for blood but rather because there was no way on earth that the two men were able to stay in the same room for longer than 15 minutes without disagreeing on something or another. The young blond man would have actually appreciated it, if he could save some energy (which to be honest, he wasn’t sure he had much left of, not that he’d admit it but two days ago he nearly drowned when he fell asleep in his cereal bowl after one more night without rest) and not fight with the curly haired artist but there was just absolutely no way he could ever make his peace with Grantaire’s nay-saying of literally every point and cause Enjolras fought and stood for. Today just turned out to be the icing on his cake of compiled irritation and although he was too stubborn to take back what he had said, he could still feel a nagging sense of regret in the back of his mind accompanied by an occasional turning of his stomach, when he thought of the way Grantaire had looked at him as he got up. Was Enjolras starting to imagine things or was it possible that he had never seen so much raw pain as he could see in the ridiculously blue eyes of his opposite in the moment of what must have been defeat?

He had gotten off the bus and had been walking for a while now, so deeply emerged in his thoughts that it wasn’t until the sudden downpour of sleet, Enjolras even noticed that he had forgotten his extra bag with some of his folders and his umbrella at Courfeyrac’s apartment, where he had dropped him and Combeferre off after their meeting. He was cursing under his breath, because this was exactly one of those situations where he was grateful to have Combeferre as a roommate - he always thought of everything. But seeing as the semester had just ended and Christmas had already been some time ago, most of Les Amis were eager to fly out to visit their families, including Enjolras’ two best friends. Hurrying up his steps to get to his apartment complex, he calculated whether he could remember if Marius was planning on leaving for break as well or if he’d be able to get a hold of his folders any other way. Intend on quickly escaping the horrid March weather, Enjolras finally reached the steps that would lead to the front door of the building, where he and Combeferre shared an apartment at, when he almost tripped over something. Cursing under his breath he moved to set off the motion controlled light outside and was more than dumbstruck and stunned by the sight of the something - or rather the someone - he had almost fallen over.

Dripping wet, covered in little bits of snow, still wearing his beanie and sweater but having somehow lost his jacket, Grantaire was slouched on the stairs in front of the building. He had substituted his cigarette with a bottle of gin, which was emptied two thirds down and obviously not his first one, considering how much he had already had at the Musain and how, when moving a bit Enjolras spotted an already emptied whisky bottle on the ground next to the artist’s feet. Thinking about the amount of alcohol Grantaire must have infused himself with, the stomach of the sober man twisted and turned in a mixture of aversion and guilt. It seemed that it took him some effort to do so, but Grantaire lifted his head to look at Enjolras to exlaim “Aaah, ‘Pollo! There you are...’Ve been waitin’ for you t’return...” The slurring was what got the young blonde really worried, because although Grantaire wasn’t constantly drinking, he could still take a good lot and Enjolras had only ever heard him slur like that on one other occasion before and that was the time they had to take their drunken friend to the hospital to get his stomach pumped. Overwhelmed by what was just happening before his eyes, about a  hundred questions swirled through Enjolras’ mind and yet all he managed to get out was a simple “How long have you been sitting here?”. Scoffing at that remark, Grantaire tried to prop himself up to properly stand but missed and slipped on the bit of slush that covered the steps. Hitting his arm he uttered several profanities, which made Enjolras snap out of his daze. “God, Grantaire... What have you gotten yourself into now?”, he asked the drunken man to his feet and while taking his arm to heave him up, unintentionally changing to a softer tone saying “Come on, you must be freezing.”

He wasn’t exactly sure how he managed to not only open all the doors that separated them from the inside of his apartment but also to support the absolutely wasted man he had found in front of his building. Enjolras was still utterly confused as to why Grantaire had drunken himself to stupefaction right outside of his flat in this weather, apparently waiting on him. Of course Grantaire had been visiting before, but that was only when Combeferre was home, because obviously there could be no other reason to stop by, considering how he couldn’t stand being around Enjolras - or rather: considering how he couldn’t stand Enjolras at all. Maybe it was that, topped off by their argument earlier at the café that had pushed the artist too far and now he was here to fight him or something. It seemed unrealistic and reasonable at the same time and his obscure thoughts confused the student even more. Nevertheless his thinking kept him from noticing how close the other man suddenly was, with his arm slung around his own shoulders, completely wet from what must have been hours sitting outside in the mixed downpour of rain and snow, slightly smelling of alcohol, which taken into account the amount he must have consumed stayed at a relatively low level. Although Grantaire was dripping wet and felt chilled to the bone, his face was radiating quite a lot of heat. Had Joly been here he could have helped Enjolras, because there was no doubt that Grantaire was not in a good condition. He was muttering things under his breath, every now and then increasing on volume but still slurring so much that Enjolras could not understand a single word.

When he had unlocked the door he fumbled a bit to switch on the lights without Grantaire dropping viciously on the floor, trying to heave the other man onto their sofa but somehow they still managed to stumble, trip and land weirdly tangled on the floor. Enjolras was starting to get visibly irritated because not only was he confused and fed up beyond his own limits but also because his own clothes were already damp just from supporting Grantaire, which meant that he really must have sat in the sleeting rain for hours and it seemed to be Enjolras fault. “Alright. This is not working out. Grantaire, how much _did_ you drink?”, Enjolras finally asked trying to sit up and make the drunkard lean against the living room wall. “Dunno, s’not important, innit? S’not like you care...”, Grantaire mumbled back to the surprise of the sober blonde. As hard as he tried Enjolras could not wrap his head around the events of tonight. He could not come up with a single explanation that was reasonable enough to include all the facts played out in front of him - from their argument at the café to them sitting on his living room floor with wet and damp clothes. Surely he was missing something but he came to the conclusion that the dark haired art student was too intoxicated to give him an explanation that was even half as satisfying and clarifying as he would wanted it to be. “What’s wrong ‘Pollo? Too disgusted by my presence?” At that remark Enjolras’ head darted up, which he had previously buried in his hands, trying to suppress the frustration rising inside of him. The look he received from Grantaire was nowhere near the angry expression he would have expected, but it was rather resembling that one of sadness and defeat he had seen at the café. Once again Enjolras’ stomach turned unpleasantly and he suddenly felt the great urge to apologize to Grantaire, telling him that he hadn’t had much sleep lately and that he was really short tempered at the moment and that he hadn’t really meant what he had said and that it had probably been too harsh, just like Courfeyrac and Jehan had said and that even Combeferre was a bit mad at him and that he was sorry that Grantaire had apparently waited for him and... so many things darted through his mind at once. Nobody would have believed it, but the usually extremely eloquent student, who had won many prices (and general arguments) with his debating skills, was unable to utter a profound apology. It wasn’t like he did not want to or that he did not mean it, but when Enjolras was made to say sorry to somebody he never knew where to start, how to get his point across, how to show how he felt and how to console the person opposed to him. He knew it wasn’t okay to just keep quiet and not apologize at all (Combeferre and Courfeyrac had taught him during the very first years of their friendship), so usually he mumbled something really fast that most likely sounded half-hearted but most of Les Amis knew it wasn’t meant that way and appreciated that he even tried. This time however was different; this time he had to apologize to Grantaire for something that actually turned out to have had a worse effect than he had tried to tell himself. Staring into the pair of crystal blue eyes and before he even knew it, words escaped his mouth that he wished to catch the moment he uttered them and yet they hung in the air between them.

“We need to get you out of your clothes.”


	2. Chapter 2

It was almost painful how that sentence hung between them and Enjolras cursed his mouth for having a habit of producing words at an outstanding speed - sometimes faster than his brain could even process them. Had he really just told Grantaire to take his clothes off? No, he hadn’t. No, because instead he had told him that _they_ should take them off. This was possibly the most awkward and unbelievable situation he had ever gotten himself into. “Well... uhm.. I mean, because you are all wet... and it’s so cold outside... you might get sick...” he was really not making this any better, but then again there was no way he could make it worse either, he thought to himself. “I mean, you don’t need to. It’s just... you know, Combeferre and Joly...” the blonde could feel the heat rising in his face, blood rushing to his cheeks, as he tried to avoid the flabbergasted gaze of the drunken man leaning against his living room wall. Where did his eloquence wander off to when he really needed it? This was by far the feeblest attempt of an explanation he had ever given, including the time he was forced to participate in a classroom discussion with assigned opinions, where he had to mime a pro-life conservative. There was no way he could take this tension between them anymore. Sure, Grantaire was extremely drunk and couldn’t even talk in coherent sentences at the moment, but the look on his face made it perfectly clear that he had heard Enjolras alright and the blond man saw no way that this would not make their relationship even worse. He might as well tell Grantaire to get out of his apartment. Actually he was still mad about their argument earlier and the artist’s general attitude he displayed at every single one of their meetings. Considering how tired he was, surely it was excusable to tell the cynical nay-sayer to leave him alone and not bother him with his drunken shenanigans. “Enjolras...”, when he heard Grantaire’s voice, a little hoarse from too many cigarettes and hard liquor, a completely different thought crossed his mind. Why not stick to it? He had just managed to think of a legitimate excuse he could use, if he wanted to send Grantaire away. Problem was that he wasn’t sure he really wanted to send him away. After all, there must have been a reason he had waited in front of his apartment in this gruesome weather and apart from feeling guilty for that, Enjolras was also growing quite curious. Yes, it was definitely possible to find excuses for this awkward mess he had gotten himself into. Sure, Grantaire _was_ extremely drunk and how could Enjolras not let him stay with him in that case?

His stream of consciousness was suddenly broken, when he felt a cold damp hand touching his cheek. Enjolras had not noticed Grantaire moving away from his spot against the wall, crossing the space he had initially created between them. Completely taken off guard and certainly too sober and perplexed, his brain went blank and suddenly he knew what a deer in the headlights of a car must feel like. He was not prepared for this, he thought panicking slightly. Here he was, thinking Grantaire had waited to fight him and now the artist’s face was but a couple of inches away from his own, his hand still resting on Enjolras’ cheek. The student couldn’t remember ever being this close to the dark haired cynic and it felt like the first time since they knew each other, that Enjolras was really looking at him and taking in his features. It wasn’t like he had never _looked_ at Grantaire, oh no, he remembered well how intrigued he was when Prouvaire had shown up with him in tow at one of their meetings one day, but his arrogant scoffing to the first remark Enjolras had made that day, had made it quite clear that his interest was definitely not returned. From then on he had taken good care to suppress any longing thought, which he had noticed was only possible when he stood clear of looking at the art student’s face for too long. Right now however, it was strictly impossible for Enjolras not to notice how the dark curls framed the oval face or how the stubble on his cheeks stretched over the square jaw down his throat, where is prominent Adam’s apple moved while he swallowed, nor could he miss how Grantaire’s bright blue eyes lingered on his lips. Enjolras’ own gaze then moved from the artist’s eyes down his Greek nose to the chapped but full lips that slowly moved closer. Enjolras knew he had to get away now or say something in order to prevent this, when suddenly Grantaire’s face srewed up and he let out a loud sneeze.

Snapping back to his senses Enjolras quickly moved to his feet, trying to shake off his flash of dizziness. He wasn’t entirely sure if he should feel offended or not, when Grantaire suddenly gave off a deep, guttural laugh, still sitting on the floor but having moved back to his spot against the wall. Enjolras went over to the sink in their open kitchen and filled a glass he had gotten out of the cupboard half full with water. He rummaged through some of the drawers in the kitchen, searching for the one where Combeferre kept the Ibuprofen, but gave up eventually when he remembered that his roommate had moved them (only where to he couldn’t recall). “Here” he said to Grantaire, handing him the glass, “I’m afraid I can’t remember where Combeferre put our medicine, but the water should help you a little.” It seemed surreal, all of this, he thought, how a minute ago they were so very close and how now they had gone back to their usual behavior - Grantaire slouching against the wall with almost calculated casualness and Enjolras’ painfully strained attempt of appearing indifferent and oblivious to the tension between them. Once again the silence was broken by a heavy sneeze from Grantaire, which reminded the blond student of the fact that the other was still completely wet and probably chilled to the bone. “You really need to get rid of those wet clothes.” This time aware of what he was saying, he was able to underline the sentence with a matter-of-factness and a tone of concern that made it clear he had no other motives. “It would probably be best if you took a shower. Can you stand up on your own?” “Really, Enjolras, ‘s not like I’m that drunk...” Grantaire answered, sounding slightly indignant while scrambling to his feet, supporting himself against the wall behind him. He took a step forward and swayed dangerously, yet remaining on his feet. The next step however he missed, which made him hit the chairs at the little cooking island. With a sigh Enjolras moved over to him, slung the drunken man’s arm around his shoulders and guided him to the apartment’s small bathroom.

“And we are back to awkward...” he muttered under his breath, when he sat Grantaire down on the floor, realizing he probably had to help him in this endeavor. “Get undressed, while I make sure the waters running hot. Seeing as you aren’t in any condition to take care of yourself, I’ll just run you a bath and you can warm up. I guess you can stay the night.” Grantaire had already tugged his sweater over his head, revealing a paint stained white shirt underneath. “Bit blunt, innit ‘Pollo?” he said with his usual cocky tone, raising an eyebrow at Enjolras but suddenly dropping his gaze to the floor, as if he was ashamed of something. “Well, you can have Combeferre’s bed, since he’s not home, but only if you promise not to cause a chaos or anything... I am not ready to vouch for you.” Grantaire made a saluting gesture and Enjolras was not sure what to make of it, so he chose to ignore it an leave it uncommented. Turning on his heels he quickly went into his own bedroom, heading for his closet. Surely Grantaire would fit into his clothes, but nevertheless it was odd to pick out things for him to wear. He found the task much more difficult than he had imagined, seeing as he worried way too much about each little detail, considering every possible result that lead from his decision. Eventually he ended up with a neat little pile of clothing for Grantaire to pick from: a plain shirt, a pair of pyjama pants, boxer shorts, an old sweater and even a pair of socks. Enjolras was rather pleased with himself, because he had a feeling that this time he was being really considerate and if Combeferre had been here, we would have probably been proud of him (he would have laughed at his worrying nevertheless). Moving back to the bathroom to check for the water and his drunken problem child, he found Grantaire bending over the tub, turning off the water, clad in nothing more than his plain white boxer shorts, which due to their state of being drenched from the rain, were slightly translucent. Finding himself staring for longer than he had intended, he cleared his throat to make the other man turn around. “Here, you can pick whatever you’d like to wear. You can use any of the towels that hang over there.” Enjolras quickly said, while putting his neat pile on the lid of the toilet and picking up Grantaire’s clothes from the floor. “I’ll hang these up for you and you can take as long as you like... just do me a favor and don’t drown, I really don’t have the nerve to deal with that right now.” Mentally congratulating himself on having regained his posture he made to leave, when Grantaire grabbed him by the elbow to stop him. Enjolras had to admit to himself that he was almost a bit disappointed that he didn’t hold the touch but let it drop after Grantaire had managed to stop him from striding out the door. “I... I just...” Weirdly enough Enjolras couldn’t remember ever having heard him stutter and fumble with words, for Grantaire was equally as eloquent as himself, though he tended to make frequent use of profanities. Standing still, the blonde made sure not to turn around, afraid he’d get himself into yet another weird situation. “I am sorry. Thank you.” Grantaire’s words came out sober, soft and absolutely honest and although Enjolras wasn’t quite sure he understood why the artist really apologized to him, when clearly it was just as much his fault (there was no point in denying that anymore), he curtly nodded and went out into the living room.

Trying to block a new flood of questioning thoughts, the political science major tried to focus on the problem of his forgotten folders again, while putting the wet clothes over the back of the chairs at their kitchen counter. Owing to the small size of his and Combeferre’s apartment, where it was possible to hear every little movement in the adjacent rooms, it proofed to be harder than expected to ignore the fact that he wasn’t alone. Visibly agitated Enjolras decided to send a text to Marius, asking if he was heading home tomorrow or if there was any possible way to get his folders back, because he really needed them to write an important essay. Moving around the living room and integrated kitchen area, he absentmindedly turned on the TV and put on the kettle to make some tea, taking out two mugs and preparing some for Grantaire and himself. When his water had boiled and he had drunk his tea, while watching one of those pretentiously elaborate talk shows where actors and TV hosts were invited to talk politics (something that infuriated him to an enormous extent but helped distracting him nevertheless), he quickly went into Combeferre’s room to check if it was okay to let Grantaire stay there for the night. It was a good thing that his roommate didn’t keep too many things around and was rather fond of keeping his room tidy. Furthermore he was the most understanding and gentle person Enjolras had ever met, which made it perfectly alright to offer the room to his surprise guest. While shutting the window Combeferre left ajar in the room, he could hear the water being let out of the tub, indicating that Grantaire had warmed up enough and was ready to get out. Recalling his state of intoxication the blonde decided it was for the best to make sure he didn’t slip and die, now that he had successfully followed his request and managed not to drown. “Do you need any help?” Enjolras said through the closed bathroom door after knocking on it. “Nah, I can manage alone.” The answer sounded somewhat muffled, not contending the sober man. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to break anything.” He wondered if Grantaire was able to notice the obvious mix between his sincere concern and the put on coldness in his question. It was a question alright, but he didn’t get an answer. “Grantaire? What are you doing now?” Imagining the worst Enjolras decided to dare to take a look inside, only to find Grantaire dressed in the shirt and boxer shorts he had provided him with. His hair was still dripping wet, clinging to his face. “Here, I think’ll be good with this.” Grantaire said, holding the rest of Enjolras clothes out for him to take, simultaneously groping around to grab a towel for his hair, but missing several times due to still being quite drunk. Deciding that there was no point in arguing with his headstrong opponent, he wordlessly took back his sweater, pants and socks and handed a towel to him. While Grantaire tried to dry off his hair, he returned the clothes to his room but when he went back to help the dark haired drunkard to his friend’s room, he found him softly snoring on the couch. Contemplating if he should move him or wake him, the blond man turned off the TV and got a blanket, which he draped over the sleeping cynic on his sofa, eyeing him some time before returning to his own room.

It took him a long time until he was finally able to sleep, with all of today’s events racing through his mind. What exactly had happened just now? They had fought before, that much was sure, but what had made today turn out like this? Enjolras was still completely confused about Grantaire showing up at his doorstep, or more accurately: waiting on him outside of his house until he had returned hours after the meeting at the Musain. He was still not 100% sure he could completely eliminate the possibility of Grantaire trying to beat him up (he was after all rather close with Bahorel). On the other hand they had almost kissed, or had they? What if Enjolras was interpreting things to fit his own wishful thinking? He would never be ready to admit it openly, but their encounter tonight had made the young student realize that he hated how undefined, open and tensed their relationship was. What exactly was their relation? Knowing that their necessary talk tomorrow morning would be the most unpleasant conversation he would probably ever have, Enjolras turned in his bed. Eventually he drifted off, with the mixed feeling of confusion, denial and the lingering sensation of Grantaire’s hand on his face. He woke up the next morning to the light breaking through his curtains and it took him a moment to recall what had caused him to toss and turn all night, when realization kicked in. He got up, snatching his dressing gown from the bedpost it hung over, taking a quick glance into his mirror to make sure he didn’t look quite as bad as he felt and strode out into the living room space, where he expected to find a snoring and awfully hung over Grantaire sprawled on the couch. Enjolras was shocked to find his expectations to be belied.

 

Grantaire was gone. [  
](aghastlygrantaire.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, another quick chapter :) I hope you guys like it! Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

He was walking as quickly as possible away from the building, heading for the bus stop to get him out of there. He didn’t even care where to, as long as it was far, far away from the small apartment. Pulling the hood of his sweater over his head, Grantaire tried to block out not only the early morning cold, but also as much of the horribly taunting sunlight that he had to endure, since he had woken up this morning. Although his stomach seemed to be quite upset with him, his head was unusually clear, considering the amount of alcohol he had downed last night. It almost felt like ungratefulness to himself, but the artist would have given anything for a triggering migraine right about now, that would make him forget about what he had done that previous night. Unfortunately he was able to remember everything. It all came back to him the moment he had woken up, curled on the small sofa that he had found to be rather comfortable, to his own surprise. The artist had sat up instantly and had listened for any sounds in the apartment, to find that Enjolras was apparently still asleep in his own room.  He had noticed the untouched cup of tea standing on the kitchen counter, when he had scrambled to his feet to collect his hopefully dry clothes, hanging over the chairs, where they were left the prior evening. Grantaire had obviously been so much of a hassle that Enjolras had completely forgotten to drink it. The dark haired student cursed his way of looking for the solutions to his problems at the bottom of liquor bottles. Considering how he had behaved, the artist had to admit that trying to solve his problems, be it with Enjolras or quite frankly with himself, was generally something he still really had to practice on.

Although his clothing was completely dried, he decided to keep Enjolras’ shirt and boxer shorts. He felt some blood rising to his cheeks at the thought of wearing the blonde’s underwear and wanted to repeatedly hit his head with something heavy, thinking about how dumb he had been to try and kiss him. Grantaire was completely torn between sitting back down in the living room, waiting there to hope for a second chance to talk to his unfortunate host or leaving immediately. He pondered for a short moment, mainly because he was enormously confused as to why the other student had let him stay at all and not kicked him out, especially taking in the circumstances. Ah yes, the circumstances - namely Enjolras hating his guts. Grantaire felt his already extremely upset stomach clenching at the thought of the absolutely disgusted look on his face at the café, when Enjolras had told him, he was a bother and needed to leave all of them alone. Exactly at the thought of that painful memory, the hung over artist decided to get out of the place at once. Contemplating whether or not he should leave a note, saying sorry and thanks, the student thought it for the best to give Enjolras the chance to pretend this had never happened. Trying to shut the door as quietly as possible behind him, he lingered a second with his hand on the doorknob, before he turned on his heels, sprinted down the steps and left the apartment complex.

Thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his sweater, Grantaire slowed down his pace, when he saw the sign of the bus stop, where he eventually stopped, slouching down in one of the seats. Patting himself down he hoped to find at least one cigarette hidden somewhere in his pockets, desperately needing to smoke and pretend to get rid of all the dark thoughts building up inside his head by exhaling them together with the fumes. Of course he couldn’t find anything, possibly because he had smoked half of them yesterday, after he had left the Musain and got to the Corinthe, where he had managed to persuade Bahorel to sneak him a bottle each of Bourbon and Gin and had eventually given him the other half of the pack as a thanks - more for not asking any questions than for giving him the booze. Although he was completely out of cigarettes, the artist was relieved to notice he had managed to keep both his keys and his cell phone. Pulling the latter out of his pocket to check for the time, he saw that he had several text messages and two missed calls. Chuckling to himself and idly shaking his head, Grantaire knew exactly who had written him, before he even had to check. Nevertheless he pressed the buttons on his phone, opening the missed calls first and just like he had expected they were both from Jehan, who had also send him two text messages, the first one elaborately asking him, what had happened and if he was alright. He looked at the time he had received it and concluded that Jehan had written to him immediately after he had left the café. Grantaire was used to his roommate making a fuss about everybody’s feelings, being one of the more sensitive members of their group, which he himself attributed to his poetic nature. Checking the second message that looked a bit more like a telegram, due to the many small fragments of questions and demands to call him back at once, Grantaire felt almost a bit guilty, aware of the fact that Jehan must have been really worried about his disappearance act, though at the same time thinking that this was really not the first time the art student had vanished for a while - nevertheless Jehan Prouvaire had always managed to surprise the cynical man with his caring. Far more surprising however was that he had gotten a text from Courfeyrac, simply saying he should come back and that Combeferre would ensure that their blonde leader would not get another chance to lash out on him again. Yet another text was from Bahorel, telling him the next time he’d try to fob him off with this feeble excuse of a cigarette, he would start watering down every single drink he’d order in the future.

Momentarily distracted from his surroundings and the reason he had been sitting at the bus stop, Grantaire’s trail of thoughts was disrupted by the arriving bus. He got on quickly and sat in the far back, although the vehicle was almost empty but for two elderly ladies and a young father, who sat in the front with his excited little daughter. Calculating how long it would take him to get to his shared apartment, the artist took out his phone again, dialing his roommates number and praying to the gods, Jehan would be home. His prayers were answered within two rings, when the disgruntled Literature student picked up, scoffing that this had better been an emergency at this ungodly hour on a Saturday.

Mockingly he answered, saying “Well, aren’t you a happy camper this morning?” His voice sounded hoarse, just like he had imagined. Clearly he had to check in with Joly, to ensure he wouldn’t get tonsilitis.

“Grantaire? Have you got any idea how worried I’ve been all night? I had no idea what happened at the Musain and you didn’t even answer my texts!” Words ringing in his ears, Jehan’s loud frantic shouting proved the artist wrong in thinking that he wasn’t much hung over, when a throbbing pain formed behind his eyes and temples.

Moaning in pain and hoping his roommate would be assuaged by a pitiful plea, he responded “Mercy, Prou! I’m alright, nothing happened, just a bit too much of the spirit last night. I am on my way home right now.”

“Oh, you better suffer! I had to call everybody, even just to get a faint idea of where you disappeared to. Bahorel told me you left with two bottles from the Corinthe and nobody has heard from you since then. Where exactly are you?”

Oh no. Giving away his whereabouts would mean he also had to explain how he had ended up at Enjolras’ doorstep and the artist was absolutely not ready to discuss his horrible last night right now. Not that he wouldn’t eventually tell Jehan all about it, especially since he was exceptionally good at giving advice, with his weird affinity to pick up on other people’s moods, but right now he was content with suffering in silence. Still he had to say something, just to make sure his roommate would not get the idea he was hiding anything.

“I’m still in town, currently on the bus. I should be there in about fifteen minutes. Is Joly staying with us?” Nervously shifting in his seat, Grantaire started playing with the strings on his hoodie and running a hand through his unruly dark curls. Usually Jehan could tell when he wanted to avoid a topic, but he was equally skilled at being persistent, when he wanted to know something.

“No, he’s home with Bossuet and Chetta. Nice try distracting me though, too bad it didn’t work.” Putting extra emphasis on his question, there was no doubt: Jean Prouvaire would not let the topic fall. “Where are you, Grantaire? No wait, let me rephrase that question for you: From where did you take that bus?”

Taking in a deep sigh and straightening up again in the small and uncomfortable bus seat, the artist had to admit to himself that there was no way out of this. It felt like a verbal band-aid he had to rip off fast or it would hurt him even more than it would obviously do anyways.

“I spent the night at Combeferre’s.” Strategically well phrased, he thought to himself, because it was neither the painful truth nor was it a lie. One thing however, Grantaire had completely forgotten about: Combeferre had left this morning to visit his family. Taking in account that the well-organized man had asked Bossouet to drive Courfeyrac and himself to the airport during one of their meetings and adding this to the tightly woven social ties within their group of friends, there was definitely no possible scenario in which Jehan would have forgotten it. The silence on the other end of the line made Grantaire realize his faux-pas. Karma was a bitch.

Seeing no point in beating around the bush anymore, the art major gave out another strained sigh, adding “And Enjolras’, who was actually the only one home... I kinda messed up?”

When the other man finally spoke, Grantaire was reminded why exactly letting Jean Prouvaire move into his apartment with him was possibly one of the best decisions of his life. To him it was an ability he was certain he would never be able to adopt, the caring poet however was perfectly capable of leaving something uncommented and knowing when it was for the best not to talk, regardless of how much you were dying to do so nevertheless.

“We don’t have any more milk and I wanted to grab some bread and cheese, too. Care to join me and go grocery shopping together?”

 

Smiling he responded “Yeah, I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! Change of perspective :D This took me longer than I wanted to, especially since this is more of a filler than any real progress in the story... sorry! I promise the next chapter will be a bit more revealing ;)  
> As always: thank you for reading, kudos and comments are really really appreciated!
> 
> P.S.: I hope it's easier to read the dialogue now? :)


	4. Chapter 4

Roughly 20 minutes later, the bus halted at the stop that was within walking distance to the small flat the artist shared with his caring poetic friend. To his own surprise Jehan was already waiting for him, holding a travel mug, which Grantaire hoped contained his special hangover coffee. Getting up from the small bus seat, Grantaire was hit with the aftermath of last night’s drinking spree. Apparently he had still been drunk, when he had left Enjolras’ apartment and the effect had been wearing off since then, which now resulted in one of the worst headaches Grantaire had experienced in a while. Groaning at the intensified loud squeak of the bus doors and the sunlight, which the artist swore had been growing even brighter, he promised to himself, he’d never drink that much again, although the student was well aware of the fact that he had done so uncountably often and always unsuccessfully.

“Wow, you don’t even look like _that_ much of a train wreck.” Jehan mused, handing the mug to his roommate and fumbling in his pockets to pull out a pair of sunglasses, which Grantaire put on immediately.

With a strained smile on his lips he remarked “Thanks. You do know you’re a saint, right? A clever little shit, but also a saint.”

Taking a sip of the hot beverage, feeling it run down into his nauseous stomach, the artist eased a little.  Jehan, who was watching him with a mixed look of bemusement and reprimand, tucked some errand strands of his bed-head hair underneath the beanie he was wearing, which made the art student realize he had lost his own somewhere last night.

Sensing that something was troubling Grantaire and knowing him all too well, the Literature student narrowed his eyes and with playful annoyance he said “Oh please don’t tell me you have lost your stuff at random places again!?”

“Well.. Just my jacket... and my beanie, I guess. They are probably at the Corinth or even at home. I’ll look for them later.”

Memories coming back to him from last night, how he had first wandered around town, trying to block out the things Enjolras had said to him, then briefly went home, intending to get drunk there but having run out of alcohol too soon, finally making his way to the Corinth, where he had a couple of drinks with Bahorel, who had to work and was bored out of his mind. Grantaire was still not up to sparing a thought to the remaining events of the night and took yet another long sip from his coffee, before he was made to answer any unpleasant questions. Again he was proven wrong by his roommate, who instead of pursuing the matter any further, patted him on the back and inclined that they should get going.

Grocery shopping with Jehan was one of the few things the artist never grew tired of. Somehow it gave him the illusion of having a half-decent functioning life, the way the younger student with the strawberry blond hair searched between the aisles, got excited over new things he wanted to try and frustrated when their usual brands were sold out or not available. It amazed the cynic, how one could even care so much about something perishable that had no other purpose than to still one’s hunger, yet he couldn’t deny that Jehan picking out food for them, telling Grantaire what he wanted him to cook with it (because they agreed that cooking was definitely his job), gave him a certain stability. Grocery shopping was like a promise to Grantaire; a promise of a home, where people cared for him. God, he really felt silly admitting that to himself, nevertheless it was true and one of the many small things that kept him going every day. Leaning against their cart, the young painter was watching as his enthusiastic companion tried to pick a substitute for his favorite cheese, which due to being a poor student he simply couldn’t afford this month. Jehan had a habit of spending his money on things that he deemed ‘good for the soul’, which was basically anything that put a smile on his face and fueled his creativity. Contrary to some of their friends’ opinion, Grantaire had always let Jehan indulge in these extraordinary habits, even if it meant not being able to pay for the heat and having to cuddle in order not to freeze at night. The brunette man knew his friend was sometimes haunted by thoughts very similar to his own - pitch black, soul crushing, life consuming. Jehan was possibly the only one that even had a chance of understanding the troubled cynical soul. He eyed his friend for a while, who was idly humming some catchy, happy tune to himself, took a deep sigh and thought to himself that he had done much worse before and that this was just another verbal band-aid he had to rip off quickly, but Grantaire could no longer suppress the urge to confess yesterday night’s events to his live-in.

“I got really drunk last night.” Silence. Of course, because Jehan already knew that and he was simply stating the obvious; nothing worth listening to. He decided to try once again “I got really drunk last night and went to see Enjolras. Don’t ask me why, I really don’t know. Anyways, he wasn’t there... I forgot _he_ has friends...”

The words of the art student had grown sullen, spitting the last notion out like something foul. It was true, he had gone to see Enjolras last night and though he didn’t succeed, still his alcohol infused brain had tried to make him believe it was a good idea to try and kiss the blond student, yet Enjolras’ words at the Musain had been downright vile. Grantaire had taken many low blows from him before and he had always thought that being of no particular worth or value to their group he deserved no different, taken into consideration that the artist couldn’t care less about any of their causes and made sure to express this sentiment whenever the opportunity arose. There was one thing however that Grantaire did care about, namely his friends and Enjolras practically saying the artist was a hassle to them and that he was disturbing them with his presence, was definitely one blow that went too low. Brows started to meet each other, due to the frown that had grown upon his forehead. Just when Grantaire could feel his headache starting to throb behind his temples again, a cool thumb pressed the crease between his eyebrows flat. Jehan had moved close to his friend, pulling him out of his sinister thoughts.

“Obviously you didn’t go home though.” Not adding anything Jehan made it clear that he left it open to Grantaire, if he decided to continue his story or if they’d postpone the matter.

The artist however was certain he needed to get this out of his system, especially as he grew more and more confused by his own actions, reflecting about them now with his friend at present.

“No, I waited in front of his apartment, on the stairs outside.” Adding with a chuckle Grantaire explained “I had those two bottles from Bahorel, remember?” Getting nothing but a look that clearly showed Jehan Prouvaire was far from laughing, he continued with his story.

“Well like I said, I was really drunk, by the time he came home I mean. I don’t know what really happened then. He actually helped me up and into his apartment. Enjolras had to support me and we landed on the floor...” At this point he faltered. Was he actually sure what had happened after that? Of course the artist was able to remember it all, for he drank frequently and his body had grown used to the circumstances, nevertheless he had been and still remained completely puzzled by the blond man’s reaction. “I tried to... you know, talk to him.” Lying to Jehan felt awfully wrong, yet he couldn’t bring himself to admit how idiotic he had been, trying to make a move on the beautiful blond man. Grantaire felt a weight pressing down on his shoulders, remembering he had promised to himself not to do this anymore, not to shut himself up and to draw back, when there were people like Jehan, who had told the cynical man on various occasions that they wanted him to be able to talk to them, because Grantaire was important. “I didn’t really manage to though. He poured me a bath and gave me clothes and then I kinda passed out on the couch. That was it.”

In the meantime the two young students had moved down several aisles in silence, Grantaire pushing their cart and slowly sipping his coffee and Jehan humming and still calculating and picking out groceries they could afford. Draining the last remnant of drought in his mug and idly scanning over the shelves of sweets and chips, the art student’s body finally caught up with its’ own fatigue. The loud yawn he emitted pierced through the veil of concentration of his shorter companion.

Jehan looked at him, calculation written all over his face, as he straightened up and finally asked “Do you want to hear my opinion on this or did you want me to listen and be quiet?”

The head with the dark messy curls quickly turned into his direction, clearly indicating the bedazzlement of its’ owner, a curt nod following. If it had been anybody else than Grantaire, Jehan would have probably given a shockingly rude comment or generally an answer that would make the eyes of any stranger pop. Due to his petite figure and slenderness he was used to people expecting him to be a sweet little airhead, who was nice to each and everyone and could never hurt a fly. Of course Jehan Prouvaire enjoyed being polite and caring and if he wanted to the Literature student dressed in pastel colors and painted his nails like a rainbow, nonetheless he was not a delicate flower - he could be cruelly honest, drank and smoke too much, had a thing for slasher movies and enjoyed strangely deranged things. Sure, if it had been a stranger instead of Grantaire, who had told him this story, he would have probably told the person to grow a pair and to stop being such an idiot and then he would have gone about his ways as if nothing had happened. Considering the circumstances this was absolutely no option, because this _was_ Grantaire, whose actions and motives were far more complicated, far more confused and chaotic than that of any other person he knew. Jehan was well aware of the artists self-loathe, his constant doubts and fears and his inability to see any good in his own being. Nevertheless he could usually be very straight forward with his best friend, because Grantaire understood that Jehan never meant to hurt him but every time the issue they discussed revolved around their charming yet sometimes sharp-tongued leader, the Literature student made sure to think twice before he said anything that could have been taken wrong. Carefully contemplating his choice of words, the short strawberry blonde finally began to speak.

“Okay, first off: I am still mad that you didn’t call me last night to let me know where you were or where you were going. That being said, I am well aware you are not telling me the whole story and you really don’t have to, because frankly I know you too well and can guess the true reason why you’ve gone over to see Enjolras. Of course I don’t know what exactly happened but I still think he’s been horrible to you yesterday. But then again he took you in and helped you last night, right? So I guess that’s a good sign right there! I mean Courf said that it was a bit unusual for Enjolras to get this angry and mean and Combeferre seconded it, although they both admitted he has said some other really mean things before...”

Normally Grantaire could handle Jehan’s rambling fairly well and thought it was rather cute that the his flatmate seemed to be unable to keep track on his many thoughts and notions he wanted to include into his speech, but the throbbing behind his temples made him finally put up a hand to shush his younger friend, adding with a playful tormented tone that he loved to hear Jehan speak but that he’d rather have him come to his point.

“Alright, alright... basically what I was going to say is that the two of you have a lot of unsolved issues.”

“Yeah, sorry Prou but no shit, Sherlock.” he interrupted the Literature student with a scoff in his voice and a raised brow of irritation. It was unlikely for Jehan to beat around the bush so much and state things that actually went without saying.

Puffing himself up a bit, because he frankly didn’t like to be interrupted more than once within a speech, Jehan shot back: “Well, if it’s that obvious I don’t understand why you always try to avoid any confrontation with him that would help you sort out your relationship. Now don’t even dare roll your eyes at me, monsieur! You can deny it as much as you like, yet you have very obvious feelings for Enjolras but instead of trying to show it you are constantly whining about how much he apparently hates your guts. Sure, the two of you fight a lot but apart from that quarrel... argument.. _thing_ last night, whatever that was, I doubt he really loathes you. Grantaire, believe me when I say Enjolras is not easy but he is surely not the type of person who would put up with somebody they dislike.”

The art student had to admit to himself that Jehan had a point, especially taken into consideration that Enjolras had been confusingly helpful last night, when he didn’t turn the drunkard away but instead got him out of the cold and offered him a place to stay. Thinking of it, Enjolras hadn’t even yelled at him and suddenly that seemed really odd to Grantaire, whom Jehan’s words had made to consider the fact that maybe the handsome leader of their small group of friends really didn’t loathe him. If he followed that string of thoughts, trying to find the reason behind their constant arguments in a lack of normal, decent conversation, then maybe - just maybe - he and Enjolras had a chance to start something new; something that resembled an ordinary friendship. Although his heart desired far more than a platonic friendship, he did not dare to start dreaming, because it was one thing for them to stop arguing and bickering with each other but it was impossible for the young artist to imagine a world, where they would hold hands and go on coffee and dinner dates, ending their day panting heavily and slowly falling asleep in each others arms, while their naked entangled bodies were glazed with sweat, only to wake up the next morning, seeing Enjolras peacefully dozing beside him with his blonde curls spread across the pillow. Well, actually he could imagine it quite well, because just like every other painting, which thrived from his most eccentric feelings and that slowly formed in his mind, Grantaire was able to vividly portray the colors and emotions and even smells and sounds that would accompany the scene but he had enough issues as it was and the cynical student was rather proud of himself for being able to limit his swooning and pining to an occasional quick sketch he did of Enjolras and a longing look during their meetings.

Still pondering on the possibilities Jehan had presented him with, he wanted to keep the flow of conversation going before any of his usual doubts and pessimism could commence tearing his new found hope apart again, therefore asking his poetic friend:

“What am I to do then? Write him a note saying ‘Want to be my friend? Check yes or no’?”

Sighing at Grantaire’s inability to retain from sarcasm to hide his insecurity, the Literature student answered, mimicking his friend’s tone “Yes, please do that. What a wonderful idea that is! I am sure Enjolras will take your immaturity very seriously and this will help all of your problems to magically go away. Of course not!” and finally, so that even the thickness of Grantaire’s skull would be pierced by the raw honesty and rationality of Jehan’s advice, he added with pointed words “You need to talk to him, Grantaire!”

“There’s really no way around this? I mean, you are aware of what happens when Enjolras and I start talking to each other, right?”

Of course the dark haired man knew that his flatmate was well aware of the fact that there had only been very view occasions on which the two students had been able to hold something that resembled a normal conversation, because usually either one of them was too stubborn to just stop before words were flying around like daggers. It was mostly him who got hit by them, Grantaire thought. It took him a moment to realize that Jehan had meanwhile begun to put the few items he had carefully picked out back onto the shelves to empty their shopping cart, with a neutral look on his face and nothing to indicate the motives of his sudden action.

“Wait! What on earth are you doing? It just took you about 40 minutes to assemble these things? Why are you putting them away?” the art student questioned, trotting behind Jehan, who had by now taken the shopping cart from him to go back through the aisles they had previously went through, quickly refilling the shelves with the items he initially wanted to buy for the two of them. While he did so, Jehan fumbled in his jeans pockets to pull out his cell phone, dialing a number and halfway turning to Grantaire, he finally explained “We can go shopping some other time. Right now you obviously need help, so I am calling help. I don’t want to be responsible for this alone.” Emptying the last two items from their card - a cheap imitation of their usual brand of cornflakes and a small carton containing four eggs - the short strawberry blonde made his way over to the exit, when the other end finally picked up and Grantaire could clearly hear Joly’s voice through the speaker of the phone.

“Good morning!” Jehan gleefully greeted his boyfriend. “I was just calling to let you know that a certain somebody has not been abducted or died in the ditch. - No, no he is fine, more or less... - Oh no, he’s hung over, that’s all but he’s having some issues with Enjolras. Would it be okay if we came over? - Sure that ‘Chetta and Bossuet won’t mind? - Alright, great! See you in a bit! - I love you, too!” Chirping the last sentence into his phone and hanging up and throwing it over to a still quite confused Grantaire.

“You are doing the next call. I already dialed, so no chickening out!”

The art student felt a short burst of panic surge through his body as he quickly put the phone to his ear, not having been able to look at the screen of the phone to see, whose number Jehan had dialed this time.

He feared for the worst when the person on the other end of the line answered.

 

“Hello?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh... I am so sorry this horrible chapter took me so long! I promise that the next chapter will actually have a little more plot again!  
> As always, thank you for reading! Kudos, comments, and constructive criticism is highly appreciated!! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! This is my first fic and I am currently not really sure where I am going with this... if you have suggestions or comments just let me know, I'd be delighted about feedback!!


End file.
